Serial Hearts
by MadHatter1031
Summary: Arthur Kirkland, aka The Gentleman, is your average teenager. If you forgive the fact he kills for fun. Forced by his mother to move to a new town he's become the center of grisly murders where someone challenges him at his own game. The stakes are high as the police race to figure out who's behind these murders as two deadly killers flirt with death. UsUk.
1. The Beginning

Serial Hearts

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or any of its characters

Warning: Trigger words, death, and serial killers.

XXXxxxXXX

I, Arthur Kirkland, solemnly swear that I am up to no good.

Growing up Harry Potter was one of my favorite reads. Still is to this day. But while my head fancies the dragons, pixies, and dashing cut throat pirates I find my mind often seems to drift elsewhere.

It started when I was a child. While my mum would read me my favorite story of witchcraft and wizardry I would listen attentively. The first time she read it to me I was positively enchanted. A captive to the author's script and my mother's fantastic story telling skills. But while the years passed I paid less and less attention and I had developed a new habit.

Does one count killing stray cats and dogs a habit?

My first kill was on October 31, 2003. Four years old. My big brother begrudgingly took me trick or treating, of course I was dressed like Harry Potter, and it wasn't long before he was distracted by a woman with more than perky assets stuffed into a nurses costume. All it took was a smile, a wave, a flutter of lashes, and he was distracted. I didn't notice he had stopped and I kept going. And it wasn't long before I was noticed by children older than I.

Innocent in my youth I didn't notice their ill intentions when they surrounded me. The largest one smirked. For some reason he reminded me of a scraggly tom cat. He was plump, freckled, and missing a few teeth.

I asked them politely, "What do you want?"

The obvious leader replied, "Wanna make four bucks, mate?"

I agreed because I didn't know any better. I walked off with the band of mischievous boys, holding my candy tight in my tiny fist, and I watched the leaders back as they led me down a path I could never return from. Originally I lived in a small village, and my brother had led close to the edge of town, so it didn't take long before we hit the pathway leading to the dreadful cursed woods.

The woods were large and frightening. For your average run of the mill child of course. I shown no fear. Knowing my nature I could probably laugh in the face of Death who could strike me down with his malicious scythe and not even muster up a flinch.

The trees stood tall and proud. They hugged close to their brothers and the branches connected into a quilt of beautiful green. But at night they were sinister spirits out to eat the hearts of small children. They were gruesome with their black trunks, their splintering bark, their curling branches, their twisted bodies, their blackened leaves. Funny how the mind can play such tricks at night. A little call from an owl in the midst of a spooky night and suddenly everyone's pissing their pants and screaming for mother. I admire the ones who stand tall, toss their head back, and laugh while pissing their pants. At least they have dignity.

I detest cowards. Like the children who led me to said, "dark and scary woods," that night. We stood at the edge of the woods and secretly, hush don't tell papa, I had a hunting knife stashed away in the bag I carried. It's not as if I needed it to feel safe or anything I just liked the blade. The smooth metallic gleam, the sharp edge, the sensation I get while holding it. It was my favorite toy so I brought it with me.

That night they told me they would pay me if I walked into the woods. Alone. That's when I began to suspect them. But none the less I went anyways without any argument. I didn't even say a word actually. I just stared blankly at them and made them feel uncomfortable. In my defense that's not weird. That's bad social skills.

I turned and began down the pathway leading into the gloomy wilderness with nothing but the knife in my bag. It wasn't long before I heard a rustle. A twig snap and movement among the trees. I stopped and my mind raced.

I looked around and scanned the area. Not a moment too soon they jumped out wearing skeleton masks and began to dance around me like miscreants. Instead of showing fear, because I had none, I wiggled my arms and danced with them. I might have looked like a duck now that I think about it. I wanted to fit in so I danced. I waved my hands, I shook my tush, and almost smiled. I didn't understand what was happening but I thought it was all in good fun.

But when they realized they weren't scaring me they stopped, took the masks off, and stared at me like I was a freak. That's when the real fun started.

"What are you? Some sort of freak?" Ah, the classic bully line. He even pushed me down for good measure. I'll remember that pillsbury doughboy of a leader for as long as I live because he's what got me started down this path.

Red eyes glowed from the darkness and a deep sinister growl froze the air. The children tensed immediately and looks of pure fear and dread fell upon them. They turned towards the direction of the noise and without hesitation they ran. They ran as fast as their skinny and pudgy legs could take them. The wolf stepped out from under the disguise of darkness and he set his eyes upon me. It was a brown wolf with pink stained teeth and blood dripping from the matted fur on his jaw. It oozed hostility and dominance. A predator who found new prey. Me. The child with a makeshift lipstick scar on his forehead.

I should have been scared. I should have been downright terrified. Any normal child would. But I suppose I'm no normal child, am I?

As it lunged at me, fangs ready to sink into my soft unblemished skin, I pulled out the knife from my bag and kept it right in front of me. I stabbed it right in the skull.

The force from it sent me back and I hit the ground but the wolf was dead before I even made contact with the woodland floor. I was shocked, truth be told. I wasn't mortified but I was reeling in surprise when I saw that the wolf had stopped growling and ceased making noise completely.

Blood seeped from the wound and bleed out onto my robe. I looked down. It had impaled itself onto the knife. I could see it's blade begin from the base of the wolf's throat and disappear upwards right into it's cranium. Dead. My first kill.

And it was invigorating.

The euphoria I felt was incredible and I was quickly addicted. They say that your first time is always the best. To be honest I believe that all of my kills were just as magnificent.

That night my brother found me wandering the streets covered in blood. I never told them what happened. I didn't even say a word and while they examined me for wounds and such my mind was racing. I found a sense of purpose in my life.

A serial killer's M.O. varies. Some fancy killing women because of their mummy issues, some fancy killing men because of their sexual abuse, but I like to think of myself as a righteous killer. A gentleman perhaps.

And that is my official name in the papers. The Gentleman.

From ages say four to thirteen I tried to satisfy myself by killing animals...but they became boring after a while. The same thing over and over again without a different result is pure insanity. Hey, Albert Einstein said it; not me.

By the time I turned fourteen I was going mad with frustration. Then I overheard something I shouldn't have. I was a hall monitor in the high school I was going to at the time and I overheard some juicy gossip. Now usually I wouldn't dare eavesdrop in on another conversation but a key word grasped my attention. "Rape."

I stopped and listened. There were two girls. One was obviously a mess. Her hair was messy, make up ran down her make up caked face, and her lips were puffy from being nervously chewed on. I could hear it. Her heartbroken sobs. I leaned against the wall, my eyes softening just slightly. Her friend was consoling her the best she could but I could also detect anger in her voice. She wanted blood and justice.

"-And h-he seemed really nice," She sniffled, I could hear her back dragging against the wall as she sank to the floor, "So I let him buy me a couple of drinks, no big deal." I could hear her trying, but failing, to contain a sob. I could picture her. Her bottom lip wobbling, her arms wrapping around her knees as she dug her nails into her skin. "M-My mum," She detoured for a moment, "W-Would always tell me i-if you go to a bar o-or a frat party always watch your drinks. I-I didn't listen I-I should've listened!" She cried and cried and cried. She stammered out her story and I listened to all of the details. Each uttered word she spoke broke my heart. Funny, I thought sociopaths weren't supposed to feel.

But it was something about hearing the helplessness in her words. The pure anguish and pain. It made me want to rally the villagers and start a riot. Never in my life have I ever wanted blood on my hands than in that moment.

Her friend asked her to describe the guy the best she could. She couldn't come up with a single detail except brown eyes and a skii mask. It wasn't much but lucky for me I could work with that. I waited until her friend managed to get the name of the bar she went to out of her before I disappeared down the hall.

I was done with hall monitor duty and I had a motive to kill. My blood pumped like fire and I was filled with a rush. Just the thought of having this guy's blood on my hands gave me a jolt of energy like a shot of adrenaline.

Usually I'm not one for justice or hunting down criminals like some wise cracking crime fighting stereotypical duo who spout out ridiculously corny lines but something in me wanted to extinguish this evil. And I knew just how to do it.

That night I went to the bar. Everyone in it was too drunk to question my age. So I immediately became suspicious of the ones who weren't pissed out of their minds. I sat at the bar and waited. To the left. I saw a girl. She looked young enough for nine grade finals to still be a pain in the ass to her. Although, she wore enough makeup to make her look of age she still had the underdeveloped body along with the style of a teenager. As I kept an eye on her I looked around and I noticed several underaged girls there. Mostly in groups so they could feel grown up and empowered. Honestly if they liked playing with fire they should've stayed home and poked the stove while it was on. It would be less dangerous and painful to their psyche. But Daddy issues overrule sense of decency.

I wasn't concerned about the ones in groups. They were safer. I turned my attention back to the single training bra and I saw that she was talking to someone. A brown eyed gent. I subtly kept my eyes on them and just as I predicted he pointed at something to distract her and slipped something into her drink. It easily dissolved and when she looked back the man held up his drink as a toast.

This man looked as if he could easily be a pedophile. Middle aged, ungroomed, not married (obviously), and has the fashion sense of a thrift shop mannequin. Poor but not poor enough to buy drugs.

The girl she began to mumble incoherantly, her eyes sliding shut as she stumbled out of the chair. Oh and what a samaritan. He helped her down. He dragged her out with one arm wrapped around her hips and no one noticed. What wonderful people inhabiting this waste of space people call an establishment. I followed them out and I saw him stuffing her into the back of his car. Probably going to take her to a motel.

As he was about to close the trunk of his car I struck him in the back of his head with a crowbar I kept tucked in the back of my pants. I sighed as I watched him fall and hit the ground ungracefully. The girl groggily looked up at me, her cloudy drugged up eyes showed gratitude as she weakly reached out for me. I took a moment and I examined her before I leaned forward and I took the skinny girl into my arms. I grunted, I wasn't as strong as I failed to look. I had to steady myself for a moment, "I'm here to take you home," I gasped out, my knees knocking together like dance partners.

"Thank you," I heard her whisper before she passed out. I sighed and then I straightened my legs out before I carried her to my car. I was slightly disappointed in myself for being so weak. Luckily I was strong enough to knock the serial rapist out before he could do any damage to her. I walked back over to said asshole and with determination I picked him up and I dragged him into the trunk of his own car.

The back of his head bled out onto my gloves. I groaned, "Fuck! Now I have to wash my brand new gloves, are you happy!?" I shouted at him in annoyance as I slammed the door shut. "You better hope you suffocate in there before I get to you." I pointed at the trunk with a scowl.

I looked through the girls phone when I returned to my own car, parents car actually I'm still underage and they taught me sharing is caring, and I called her parents. They were relieved to hear she was okay and they gave me their address. I drove her home while she stayed passed out in the passengers side. Safe and sound.

When I pulled up her parents were waiting their in the driveway and they quickly ran out to the car and they helped her out. She managed to gain consciousness as I pulled up and she started tearing up when she saw her family. Thankfully they were tears of relief. Her father shook my hand and patted my shoulder. I advised him to keep the girl from venturing out ahead of her age and he agreed. All was good.

And once the pleasantries were out of the way I managed to get back and start my work.

I couldn't stay out too late so I took him to an abandoned shed just on the outskirts of town and I tied him up. I left him there in chains for one night. The next night I returned and...well, let's just say he regrets ever laying his hand on a girl without their consent.

I even made a video.

He sat, broken like a housepet and colorful with blood, bruises, and cuts, in a rusty metal chair. All of his fingers were snapped like twigs, his skin sliced like ribbons, and his eyes were bloodshot. His voice was raspy and rough like sandpaper. He looked miserable and pathetic. Hanging from his nipples were rusty nails and carved into his chest was the label, "Rapist." Blood dripped from his nose and streamed over his lips. He hung his head in shame in the beginning of the video.

"I am...disgusting," The man began, each word dripped with pain and regret, "But...I will repent. I admit…" He coughed out blood, "To the rapes of these girls." He named them off and it was a long list. He looked into the camera, he was crying. "P-Please help m-" The video cuts out as well as his last attempt for salvation.

That video went viral before it was flagged as inappropriate. I posted it on every sight that I could think of. But no one really paid any attention to it until they found the body just several days later. That's when society went ballistic. My first kill was a celebrated one.

And there were a lot more to come.

XXXxxxXXX

Give me feed back please and thank you for reading. Review please! Thanks!


	2. The taste for it

Serial Hearts

Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or any of its characters

Warning: Trigger words and serial killers. Also the word fag in this chapter is used to describe cigarettes.

XXXxxxXXX

"I am what I am, an' I'm not ashamed. 'Never be ashamed,' my ol' dad used ter say, 'there's some who'll hold it against you, but they're not worth botherin' with."

I am what I am. I embraced that sentiment years ago. Never once had I been horrified with myself for what I had done….but I did question it. Why do I do what I do? Why do I love it? Why am I so different? All of these questions are always left unanswered.

Slowly but surely I cleaned up the scum bags of this town. I murdered them one by one. Some I choked with their own belts, some I would stab, and I once used a fork. The fork was because the man escaped and attacked me. The only weapon nearby was a fork and it fit nicely in his eye socket.

From the ripe age of fourteen to the narrowing age of sixteen, close to two years, I killed until there was no one left to kill. And by no one left I mean there were no more rapists or child predators for me to torture and maim. Pity. By the time I turned fifteen I had run out of criminals to take out my frustrations on. Then it was back to animals.

The yard, moronic imbeciles, never suspected my indiscretions. In fact they never suspected a teenager to be the perpetrator of such heinous misdeeds. When they started scouting out the bar like silent hawks in the night I began killing in their homes. Mum never questioned my absence and my brother was too pissed to care most of the time. Which left me with uninterrupted time on my hands and I spent it wisely.

The first man I had killed was amateur but I was proud of it. For my first time I think I did splendidly. But the more I killed the more I became more graceful and creative with it.

Kill number five was hung from a statue with the words, "Child Rapist," carved into his chest. I had undressed him and cut off what he considered more important to him than a child's innocence. I stuffed it into his mouth and I made sure his eyes were open wide. So the public could see him and he could watch them as they stared at him in disgust, contempt, and horror.

Kill number twelve was probably one of my best. I had sawed off his limbs and strung them together with wire. I hung him in the park under a tree from a machine of my own creation. He wore a sparkly wizard costume with a big purple pointy hat. The machine controlled the strings and it made him dance. Best part was, was that no one noticed he was dead until the smell began to stink up the air. I made that man dance, twirl, and wiggle while the children watched and laughed. Underneath that costume was the word, "Predator," sliced into his skin.

Kill number eighteen went nationwide. I made a website where people could watch an online predator get tortured for free. I made it look like it was all fake. Smoke and screens. So no one took notice the entire time I sliced, diced, broke, and strangled him. And best part was, was that everyone thought it was just fantastic setting and an incredible acting. It spread everywhere. The website had gained so many views and comments it was insane. But sadly I had to take it down once I let them discover the body. They couldn't trace it back to me and I got off scot free. People talked about it for a while before the story wore off and they moved onto more interesting things.

Eventually they caught onto my pattern so they gathered up the remaining predators, domestic assault bastards, rapists, and they put them all in a safe house in the woods surrounded by the police. Why they tried so hard to protect them I had no clue.

Now, I'm not proud of knocking out a copper and taking his walkie but it had to be done. I ordered all units to a place across town where the suspected killer was supposedly trespassing on private property and most of them left. That only left a couple of them left.

My dad liked to hunt. The hunting knife I took from him years ago should have been a major tip. And my father, before he died a few years back, was a lover of anything that could hunt down animals. His obsession as well as mine is what led to me having a tranquilizer gun. With precision I took down the remaining officers and I took their keys. I remember smirking confidently as I gripped the doorknob, I wore a mask in case there were cameras, and I pushed the door open.

Not a single one made it out alive. The floor bathed in their tainted blood and the windows suffered splatters of it all over it's glass pane. Their bodies were scattered about and there I stood. In the center of it all. I gripped the knife tight. The knife I used to stab and cut repetitively. It was beautiful. This scene right here. This euphoria. But somehow something was missing. It was the most glorious thing I had ever seen in my entire existence and my breath was taken away by the majesty of it. The blood, the gore, the sensation! Yet….something was off. It could be a masterpiece but it's not because it wasn't complete. Like a missing puzzle piece.

I quickly turned to anger and I screamed in frustration. "Dammit!" It was the most fury I had ever felt in my entire life and for the first time I felt human. Utterly and undeniably pathetic. I clawed at my own flesh, I gripped my hair, and I kicked a severed head so hard it crashed right into the window and set off an alarm. I sighed in exasperation and quickly made an escape before I could get caught.

Before I returned home I disposed of my sullied clothes and I pulled on fresh ones.

No one ever suspected it could have been me.

As time flew by I would sneak out at night and hunt. I would skillfully hunt down game like a prowling wolf. Something had to satisfy my need. Since the real scumbags of this town had been eliminated by my hands there was nothing fun do anymore. By day I was your average boring teenage male with a love for reading but by night I was a dangerous hunter. Like my father.

When I snuck back inside one night, a year later, not two seconds later after my head had hit the pillow my mother turned on the light in my bedroom. I squinted my eyes as the light burned my retinas and I glanced back at her.

She looked so tired. So weary and fragile. Her skin was pale and ashen, her cheeks were thin enough to be seen clearly, her eyes bloodshot, and her hair messily fell around her shoulders. "Arthur, pack your bags we're moving."

I looked at the clock, it was a little bit of a rash decision especially so early in the morning. But after my father died I remained cautious around her. She set off so easily. One key word sent her screaming and breaking plates. That died down after a year but she still looked terrible. She had lost her smile and her reason to move forward. It wasn't until after two years of living without my father had she began to look more and more like herself. Year three she could smile again. But...something must have happened. And whatever it was she wasn't going to talk about it.

So I packed up everything I owned and met my brother downstairs whose eyes bore purple bags. I almost snickered at his appearance but I decided to keep quiet. Our eyes snapped upward when we saw our mother walking down the stairs. Her white dress fluttered around her and in that moment she looked like a fallen angel. My heart clenched in my chest, I could feel it. That sadness. That familiar sense of dispair. But I could also see the strength in her eyes. The way she held herself tall and proud. Whatever weighed down on her shoulders she wasn't going to let it overpower her.

My instincts kicked in. I needed to know who hurt her. Who broke her all over again. I needed to find them and kill them. I had to grit my teeth to keep myself in line. I felt like a guard dog ready to sniff out and attack but at the same time I felt helpless because I didn't know. Once she took her last step off the stairs she offered me the faintest of a smile. And just like that it all disappeared.

The anger. The need to kill. The desperation to start the hunt. It just disappeared.

Rationally I just thought, "She'll tell me when she's ready." And I'll wait.

Allistair just stared off blankly, his hand fondled the fag pack in his pocket, and he sighed."Let's hurry the fuck up, I'm sleepy an-ow!" I chuckled as our mother smacked him on the back of his head. "Mum! That's child abuse!"

"No cursing," She muttered as she walked past us, "And get rid of your fags before we leave."

I chuckled inwardly, relieved to find that she hasn't completely disappeared like before. Just set back a couple of steps but stronger than ever. After we packed up the last of our things I looked back at the house. The home I grew up in. With it's dark glassy eyes, it's wide open mouth with wooden bottom teeth, it's red bricked skin, and it's black hair. I spent my entire life living in that house. I laughed, I cried, I danced, I lied. How poetic.

I felt a slight pang in my chest and I realized I was being sentimental. I was going to miss this place. I smiled sadly and I gave it a little wave.

"Goodbye," I said to my past as we drove away and left it behind.

And that's where we come to today. The day I move into a new time and start a new life with a new set of prey.

XXXxxxXXX

Review please! Thank you!

Sorry, the next chapter will be longer.


	3. The New House

Serial Hearts

Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or any of its characters

Warning: Trigger words.

XXXxxxXXX

"We've all got light and dark inside of us. What matters is the part we choose to act on, that's who we really are."

Light. Dark. One of life's sneaky little choices.

One who believes in the justice system would say that I'm a low down scumbag creep of a human being. Others would call me a hero or vigilante. And this is if they knew about what I had done. I, in my opinion, don't think I am either Light or Dark. I'm not good or evil.

I am simply….in between... I am grey. Muddy, distorted, an unfinished puzzle that makes no sense. On one hand you can say I was a hero. Killing grime of the world to make it a better place. On the other….I took human lives and enjoyed it. Who am I to play God? But do you want to know a secret?

It's just so much fun.

XXXxxxXXX

Our new home is in fact superior to our old one. It's Victorian with beautiful hard wood floors that contained a history, an intriging one at that. With it's brick coat that wrapped around the sides and the back of the house leaving the front to flaunt it's ancient wooden cheeks, it's cracked and faded teeth that guarded the porch, and large eyes that could see into the entire living room. It's shutters needed to be repainted and the gutters needed to be fixed but it wasn't anything to complain about. The floors were fairly smooth as well as the banister and the rest of the house's wooden decorum.

It was a fairly good deal for a family of our income.

I explored the house, getting familiar with it for this is where I was going to live for a long time. The house had four bedrooms, one more than we need, and three bathrooms. One downstairs in the kitchen, one upstairs, and one in the master bedroom. Only two with porcelain bathtubs and one with a vanity table.

Curious, I wondered if there were any secret rooms. A house like this had experienced moments, human interaction, and possibly tragedy. What would it hurt if my greedy little mind just wanted a little peek?

Sadly while I was exploring Allistair (sneaky little prat) had taken the second largest room. Oh well, I hope he won't mind if I put a little bit of Nair in his shampoo. Meanwhile, that left me with the third largest.

As I stepped into the room I felt a sort of energy about it. It wasn't just the air itself it was the entire room. The wallpaper, the floor, the closet. All drenched in a beautiful aura of something indescribable, a feeling.

Then again, perhaps I'm reading too much into it.

I sighed as I stepped over to the window and I looked out. On the otherside of the window, nearby, was another house. Just as tall and proud as my own. Facing the house was another window and in it I could see the partials of another boys room. Perhaps a child? I could see Captain America posters, a flag pinned to the wall, and if I squinted I thought I could catch a glimpse of an action figure standing on a desk. I studied it for a moment, trying my luck in seeing if I could figure out which super hero it was.

I probably stood there for about a good few minutes, shockingly enamoured with trying to figure out who the mysterious hero was, until I heard a snore. I tensed and my hand was at my side faster than you can say, "Bloody hell." It wasn't until my hand slapped my own hip that I realized I didn't take my hunting knife out of my own bag. I kept it hidden just in case mum caught a glimpse of it or went through the boxes to find it. I frowned at the the thought and quickly jumped to plan B. I kneeled down, hearing another hearty snore, and I pulled up my pant leg. The fabric brushed against my leg as I pulled free a smaller knife, I bought just in case, from the confines of my shoe. I pulled it's leather case free and I steadily approached the closet where it originated.

The closet wasn't far from me and had only a singular white door. I held the knife in position as I approached it with suspicion licking at the nape of my neck. A number of possibilities ran through my head as I soundlessly approached the closet. I rested one pale hand on the brass door knob, my heart rested calmly as it always does, and I twisted it slowly.

The door swung open effortlessly and I didn't even flinch as I was attacked by the grating sound of a deep throaty snore. I loooked down and I grimaced at what I saw.

Curled up around a bottle of tequila was a red blooded American boy wearing a red letterman jacket. I frowned and wondered to myself, "Why do things like this always happen to me?"

Going by his build he's definitely a jock. It was amazing how such a bulky young man could fit in such a narrow closet. The snoring boy definitely wasn't fat but he wasn't a thin beanpole like myself. He had muscles, mucles appropriate for a jock, and he was certainly tan. His mouth hung open sloppily and drool dribbled down his cheek. I flinched slightly at how messy and unkempt he was as well as obviously sleeping through what promised to be a merciless hangover judging by the empty bottle and the searing stench of alcohol wafting from the boy.

I did what any sensible person would do in this situation.

I kicked him.

"Oi!" I called out to him, frowning. The peacefully sleeping male didn't seem to notice my inflicition of violence so I shouted to him, "Hey, Mate!"

Nothing. Not even a change of expression.

My patience was wearing thin. "Very well," I huffed, turning my nose up, "If that is how you would like to play it then game on."

I stomped down to the kitchen, not my mother nor my brother seemed to sense my aggravation. I ripped through a random box and luckily it was the one with the silverware and cups in it. I picked up the biggest cup I could find and I marched right back upstairs. I made a stop by the bathroom before returning to my bedroom where the soliciting teen slept like a drowsy baby.

I scoffed at the peaceful expression on his face. How dare he? He tresspasses and has the gall to look happy about it. Even if it was just sleep, it was still very rude to subconsciously look happy about a violation of the law.

Now this doesn't make me a hypocrite. I don't annoy people I kill them. There is a vast difference for at least I have manners.

Throwing all manners to the side for the moment I tipped the cup over and poured it right over the tresspassers peacefully sleeping face. I expected a scream or at least some mild reaction. I didn't expect for him to shoot straight up, look up at me with squinted Ocean blue eyes, and then tackle me into my own floor.

I was not having a good day.

The knife clattered to the side with a loud clang and I grunted, my fingers feeling weak without it.

All air seemed to leave me as this oaf of a human being plowed into me like I was the enemy. My back hit the hard floor and I cried out as pain shot up my spine. The heavy bastard landed on top of me and while I was too focused on trying to gather my bearings he had me pinned. Wrists trapped and my back aching. His legs had mine emprisoned to the floor as well and even for a football player this git was unnaturally strong. I couldn't even move. My head swam from the hit it took from the solid floor and it took me a moment but when I realized it, it was too late. A feeling entered my system. A feeling I never had before. I felt...powerless. Never once had I felt this in my life. Not when my mother scolded me, not when my father forced me to kill a deer for the first time, and not even when Allistair had me in a choke hold. Not. Once.

My eyes were wide and I could see him clearly for the first time. Blast, the idiot just had to be handsome. That didn't stop me from feeling something else I had only felt once before. Anger.

Before I could get a word out he beat me to the punch, "Where the fuck are my glasses, Mathias?!"

This bloke wore glasses? I could see it now. The slight, barely noticeable, dents in the sides of his nose right in between his eyes. He's been wearing glasses his whole life from what I deduced. And it seems that this completely useless lump of flesh and bones thought that I was someone else.

"I'm not bloody Mathias you git!" I screamed at him and he looked taken aback. As if the last thing he expected was someone else.

"Oh, shit." He quickly scrambled off of me to the side while I coughed, trying to regain some of the air in my lungs.

One of his large hands slapped my back, hard enough to force what air I was gathering to leave once again and I coughed even harder.

"Shit, shit, shit! Sorry!" He said anxiously, his eyes were filled with panic. "I am so, so sorry, Dude. I thought you were someone else and-"

I cut him off, "Who the fuck are you and what are you doing in my house?!" I demanded through breaths of air that I still wasn't managing to grab a hold of. He didn't nswer me.

I felt his hand but this time it wasn't slapping my back. No, this time it was rubbing it. I gave him a questioning stare but he answered, "Sorry, I grew up with asthma and this always sort of helped when I was a kid."

I glared and slapped away his hand with a tight frown, "Who are you?" My voice had dropped, to me it sounded dangerous and laced with venom. But it seemed to fly right over his head.

He smiled at me, actually smiled at me, and laughed, "Well, actually, I'm your next door neighbor!"

I stared at him for a good moment. It took everything I had not to drop my jaw. Oh, Fate. You are but a cruel mistress.

I growled, my fists tightening, "What are you doing in my house?"

He stared at me, he looked as innocent as a child with that look on his face. "Well," He laughed awkwardly, "You see...I was dared to come here."

"Dared to?" My lips curled into a frown, a frown I was quickly becoming accustomed to other than my usual stoic expression of lack of emotion.

"Yeah, didn't you hear? This place is totally haunted!" He flinched when he said the word haunted and even paled a little. It made me wonder if he was scared of ghosts. I believed in no such thing.

"Oh?" All venom lost and was now replaced by curiosity. "By who?"

"Only the greatest Serial Killer of all time!" He said with wonder and excitement in his eyes.

That caught my attention. "A serial killer? You don't say." I said with an interest in my voice. Not too much interest. I didn't want to rouse the boys suspicion.

He nodded quickly, his blond hair flipped up and down as he did. "Yep! His name was Allen! The Cursed Angel!"

I tapped my chin out of habit and listened intently, "Go on."

"Well," Alfred began. "Grab some popcorn because this is one hell of a story!"

XXXxxxXXX

Review! I'm really sorry for the long wait but I didn't have any way of writing the next chapter. Hope I don't take forever with the next one. Thanks!


	4. The Cursed Angel Part 1

Serial Hearts

Chapter 3: The Cursed Angel

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia in any way shape or form.

"You're just as sane as I am."

Sanity. I don't claim to have it. In my opinion I believe that sanity is a mere illusion. We all have problems and we all have a past. It's human nature to lie, cheat, and steal.

Here's a brain teaser.

Who is more sane? The bouncy blonde haired girl without a care in the world, smiling as she's handed her diploma, whispering to her friends about a girl she saw wearing some drab outfit, marrying your average joe, and having kids. Whatever that means. Or, the boy who's lived his life in heartache. His father left, his mother became an alcoholic, his little sister became the school whore, he was poor, he suffered from depression, and his entire life he was mercilessly bullied.

Here's the answer.

Neither are truly sane.

The girl, the one who's had her entire life going for her, is going through a continuous loop of expectancy. Day by day she does the same thing over and over again, never changing, never faltering and always smiling. That's suburbia.

The boy, the one who's never had a hint of luck in his life expects only pain and sorrow. So he goes through the same thing. Everyday. Wakes up, takes care of his mother. He quit school so he could pay the bills and now he works in the same dead end job as before. His sister disappears every night only to return in the morning without her panties.

Do you doubt my theory?

Einstein once said that the definition of insanity is the doing something over and over again and expecting different results. Like a scientist doing the same experiment but never changing a thing.

But the cruel thing is when Fate decides to intervene and in an instant insanity becomes sanity. All it takes is open eyes.

The girl, she loses her husband and one of her kids in a car accident. Her entire life is torn apart but her eyes are open. She sees how pretentious her friends are when they give her pitying stares and talk about how terrible she looks behind her back. She realizes that her husband was cheating on her when the mistress comes to the hospital. She knows that life isn't what she planned it out to be. But, throughout the tragedy and the pain she finds herself becoming stronger and a more fierce mother. She becomes independent and she takes life by storm. Even if on the inside she's still mourning the loss of her old family.

The boy, every night before he goes to bed he takes out a notebook and he writes down whatever is on his mind. He never writes about himself, oh no. He writes about amazing things like warrior princesses, clumsy magicians, goofy talking sheep, and thief with the heart of gold. One day he decides to send to a publisher and after that it's not long before he's one of the most famous authors in the country. His mother begs him daily to buy her beer and materialistic things but he soon realized that she was poison in his life. No longer was she a mother but a leech. So he casted her aside. Realizing what she's become she gets help with the vow that she'll become the person her son had always wanted her to be. His sister became pregnant in the tenth grade. She was forced to quit school and now she's married with the man who impregnated her in the first place.

Her insanity led to clarity, that her life was never truly going to make her happy even if she expected it to be.

His insanity led to personal wealth through imagination, all it took was leaving his past behind and changing his own future.

Ask yourself this, are you truly sane?

* * *

The Cursed Angel, aka Allen (last name unknown).

He was born in the late nineteen thirties in a religious family. HIs father refused to show any affection or love towards his children because it was a sign of weakness while his mother showered them with all the attention needed.

Early on his mother knew that he was different from the rest of the children. He would come home with dead animal carcasses and claim that the voices in his head told him to do it. She tried to keep it a secret from her hard bearing husband but all secrets come out one way or another.

His brother, James, was never truly scared of him. They shared secrets, they climbed trees together, and they waded in creeks while fishing for imaginary fish. Even when he found out about Allen's other activities he still loved his brother to death. But that was childhood. That was before papa had come to know Allen's little secret.

His father, already intolerant of Allen and his juvenile ways, locked him up in his bedroom on his fifth birthday when his son came home drenched in blood. He built in a slot so they could pass Allen his food through the door until he repent from his sins. He never did. For years he stayed in that tiny bedroom. His clothes went through the chute, the one Allen couldn't fit through and escape, and his mother would give him books and harmless toys behind her husbands back. Sometimes he would scream like the devil possessed him and sometimes he was as quiet as the church during a moment of silence. Sometimes he would eat and sometimes he would starve himself.

Every day his father would walk up to the door, knock with his knuckle three times, and then ask, "Do you repent from your sins, Son?"

And every day he would answer, "No, Father, I have not."

On Allens fourteenth birthday the family had treated it like it was any other day. They didn't celebrate his birthday anymore. Not until he repented.

Some say that it was the mother or James who did it but one day a knife fell through the slot. A sharp butcher knife. It clattered against the floor and Allen was in shock. But then a Devil's grin spread across that wicked face and he picked it up and he hid it until the next day.

At the same time, as always, his father asked, "Do you repent from your sins, Son?"

And this time Allen's answer changed, "I do repent, Papa."

Pleased by his sudden change his father opened the door and-

* * *

"Oi! Ye, little shit! Get downstairs mum's got take out!" Alistair called up the stairs which startled Alfred and I.

Well, mainly Alfred. I don't scare easy.

I shouted back, "Piss off you wanker!"

"Language!" My mother shouted, loud enough to rattle the house. I flinched, okay perhaps my mum is a tad frightening.

Alfred seemed to agree by the look on his face. I sighed, "You should go. If my mum finds out about this she might give you a lecture and I don't want you here longer than necessary."

Alfred pouted, all fear gone, "Awww, come on, Artie! I was just getting to the good part!"

I rolled my eyes, "Then another time?"

Alfred perked up, his rebellious cowlick bounced and the way he seemed to bounce back reminded me of a light switch. One minute pouty and with a flick of a switch instantly bright. "Really? That means I get to see you again?"

This threw me. He wanted to see me again? Me? Arthur Kirkland who's never had a single friend in his life nor a date. What was so interesting about me? Apart from my secret lifestyle there was nothing. Well, nothing that other people considered interesting. I mentally shrugged and thought, "Oh well. Mate might get bored of me after our next meeting and everything will go back to normal."

I sighed, giving in for the sake of setting myself up for inevitable disappointment. "Sure, why not? Now, how did you get in? And where do you live?" I said, standing up. Pain shot through my backside from landing on it quite roughly and I bit back a grunt.

Alfred, like the cheerful little puppy he is, grinned like he was given a treat and he pointed out the window, "There!" He said, his finger aiming for the next door neighbors house.

My jaw dropped. Are you serious?

"Well, bye Artie!" Alfred said as he walked over to the window and opened it up. One minut he was there and the next minute he was gone.

After recovering from the initial shock from the realization of having an idiot for a neighbor my eyes widened. Did that moron just jump out of the window?! And did he just call me Artie?!

I ran over and looked out. My bangs fell over my face as I caught sight of Alfred, on his feet, perfectly okay. He looked up, flashed me a million watt smile and waved, "Bye, Artie!" He shouted with the exuberance of a child.

I rolled my eyes and shouted, "My name is Arthur!"

He laughed, "Okay, Artie!" He then fluidly walked away. Without a single injury. What kind of bloke is he?! That wasn't a deadly drop but it was enough to at least break a bone or two!

"Arthur!" Alistair yelled.

"I'm coming!" I screamed in frustration before slamming the window shut and storming downstairs.

XXXxxxXXX

I know this chapter may be short but I wrote this while I was half asleep so please be gentle. Review!

P.S. I'll make the chapter longer next time, promise!


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